That ovation validated all the hard work I had put into the film. Indeed, the Missing in Action films (we did three) were taxing to make, physically and emotionally. The movies were made in the Philippines on a difficult and hazardous location, and many of the action scenes were extremely dangerous. One scene I vividly recall required me to lead four MIAs into the ocean where we were to be rescued by a helicopter. The plan was for us to be chest deep in the water when the chopper would fly over and drop us a ladder. I was supposed to hold the ladder while the MIAs climbed aboard to safety. Then at the end of the scene, the helicopter was to come under attack and fly off with me still holding onto the ladder, dangling above the water.
The shot was difficult and dangerous, even for a professional stunt double, whom we had planned to replace me on the ladder just before the helicopter flew off over the ocean. When we went to do the shot, however, the wind was whipping too hard, and my brother Aaron, who was the stunt coordinator, feared that the strong winds might blow the stunt double up into the helicopter blades. To prevent an accident, we decided that I'd simply hang onto the ladder a little longer, allow the chopper to pull me out of the water, and then lower me back down.
We began shooting the scene, and everything went as planned. The helicopter hovered perfectly while I held the ladder taut and the MIAs climbed aboard. I was up to my neck in the ocean, with an M-16 rifle across my shoulder. The chopper started to pull me up out of the water as planned, but then, instead of hovering for a moment or two and then lowering me back into the water, the helicopter took off! The next thing I knew, I was three hundred feet in the air, blowing in the wind, hanging onto the ladder for dear life! I felt as though my arms were going to rip right out of my shoulder sockets! When I looked down, I saw the film crew staring up at me, their mouths wide open in horror.
Aaron jumped into a boat and started chasing after us as the helicopter swooped out over the ocean. Meanwhile, the assistant director radioed the pilot, who had no idea that I was still hanging on. He swung the bird around and lowered me onto the beach. The guys on the ground had to pry my fingers off the ladder.
When we all calmed down, I asked Aaron, “If I had let go of the ladder and just fallen into the water when we were flying out over the ocean, do you think the impact would have killed me?”
“Carlos, you were three hundred feet in the air,” Aaron said, rolling his eyes. “You'd have been deader than a doornail!”
One of the most emotionally wrenching scenes I've played in my movie career was in Missing in Action 2: The Beginning. Braddock is again attempting to save MIAs that supposedly don't exist, when he is captured and tortured himself. When a fellow prisoner is dying of malaria, Braddock finally agrees to sign a phony confession of crimes against the Vietnamese people that his torturer holds over his head, if his captor will give the sick man a shot that could save his life. The torturer dupes Braddock into signing the confession, then instead of helping the MIA, he has him dragged in front of Braddock and burned alive while Braddock is forced to watch.
It was one of the most difficult scenes I've ever done as an actor, and it had to be done on two successive days. The first day we shot the footage of the burning soldier; the second day my reaction to the sadistic act was to be filmed. That meant I had to draw the emotion from within rather than in response to the scene. There was only one way to pull that much emotion out of me. I told the crew, “This is going to be a one-shot deal, so be sure to get it in one take.”
When we filmed the shot, I pictured my brother Wieland there in Vietnam, leading his troops, warning his soldiers of a trap, and then being cut down by the Vietcong. Then I saw Wieland in the funeral home, the day we buried him.
We got the emotion on film that we needed, but I was never willing to do it again. It was the best I could do to honor my fallen brother and the thousands of other fallen brothers who died in Vietnam. When Missing in Action came out, it earned more than six million dollars at the box office during its first weekend, a phenomenal success at that time. It also received some good reviews, a pleasant change from some of my earlier films. But the best praise of all came from a young woman who told me she had taken her father, a Vietnam vet, to see the film. “It was the first time I've ever seen him cry,” she told me.
Shortly after I had done the Missing in Action movies, and at the height of Phil Donahue's popularity as a controversial television talk-show host, I received an invitation from the producers of Phil's show to appear on Donahue. “We'd like you to come on the show and talk about the Western movies today, as compared to the old Westerns, starring John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, and other old-time Western movie stars.”
“Hey, that sounds great,” I said. “Yeah, I guess I could do that.” I thought it was such an intriguing topic, I even took my mom and brother with me to the studio in Chicago, although the producer emphasized to them that, since they were family members, they were to be spectators only. They could stay along the side of the audience but were not permitted to participate in the discussion.
That should have been a clue to me.
The celebrity panel that day included film critic Janet Maslin as well as a psychologist and a comedian, all of whom were extremely liberal in their political persuasions. Phil Donahue opened the show by coming on the set wearing a headband and brandishing a tommy gun. “Is this the kind of movies you want your children to see?” Donahue asked, waving his gun at the audience.
As soon as I saw Phil's outfit, I knew that I'd been had. Ohhhh, no! I said to myself. I realized too late that I had walked right into a trap. I'm in trouble here.
Sure enough, Donahue started blasting me. “Your violent movies are destroying our kids!” he accused.
“Wait a minute,” I protested. “There's a big difference between violence and action. If you noticed, my movies are always a good guy fighting the bad guy; they're stories about good versus evil.” I went on, trying to explain what my movies were all about.
Donahue didn't want to hear it. He kept right on verbally lambasting me. Soon Janet Maslin was blasting me, too. Then the psychologist chimed in: “Psychologically, the kids who are going to your films are more likely to become criminals.” The comedian jumped in, as well, poking fun at the characters in my movies.
The audience—mostly women—was getting more riled with each passing statement. Donahue was roving through the audience, sticking his microphone under the nose of anyone who looked like they might agree with him. Finally, one young woman stood to her feet, and said, “Personally, I like Chuck's movies. And if you don't like them, don't go see them!”
The other women in the audience soundly booed her. Donahue and the other panel members jumped all over her, as well. She sat down and didn't say another word for the remainder of the hour-long show.
During one of the commercial breaks, Janet Maslin leaned over to me and said, “Chuck, I feel sorry for you.”
I looked back and said, “Hey, I feel sorry for myself!”
For the entire hour I was bombarded with incendiary questions, many of which had little to do with my movies or motives and absolutely nothing to do with the careers of John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Gene Autry, or Roy Rogers.
At the conclusion of the program, I confronted Phil Donahue privately. “Phil, to bring me on here under false pretenses was very low handed of you.”
Donahue's response revealed much about the television medium and about himself. He looked at me and without apology said, “We'll get great ratings for this show, Chuck. It's controversial, so our ratings will go through the roof.”
Sadly, that's the bottom line for many Donahue types in the news media as well as the entertainment industry, even to this day. It's not about truth, right and wrong, or moral issues; it's about ratings and money.
CHAPTER 17
MAKE A WISH
While preparing to do a new movie, Invasion USA, filming in Atlanta, I went to New York to promote Code of Silence, my movie that was already in t
he theaters in 1985. I was staying at the Plaza Hotel in New York, where I found a message in my hotel mailbox from Whoopi Goldberg inviting me to her one-woman play. I didn't really know Whoopi at that time, but since I had a few hours before I was to catch my flight to Atlanta, I went to see the play.
To say that Whoopi's performance was incredible would be an understatement. She was downright astounding, captivating the audience for more than two hours with her hilarious humor and poignant stories. After the performance I went backstage to meet Whoopi. When Whoopi saw me, she ran right up to me and shouted, “Chuck! My man! My main man!”
I looked around, at first thinking that maybe Whoopi had me confused with somebody else. But then she explained. “Do you remember when you were filming the movie A Force of One in San Diego?” she asked. “You had a kick-boxing scene in the Coliseum with hundreds of extras in the audience.”
“Oh, yes. Of course I remember that,” I said, thinking of how it had been necessary to calm down the rowdy bunch of extras in the crowd.
“Well, I was one of the extras,” Whoopi said, “and at that time in my life, I was on welfare and trying to raise a child.”
“You've come a long way since then, Whoopi,” I said. “You are one of the most talented performers I have ever seen!”
Whoopi thanked me and asked what I was working on. I told her that I was preparing to do a movie called Invasion USA to be filmed in Atlanta and Miami. “There is a costarring role in the film that might be perfect for you as a struggling journalist who keeps showing up at the locations where I am doing battle with terrorists who are trying to paralyze our country with fear. Would you be interested, and would you have time to play the part?”
“Well, sure, I'd be interested,” Whoopi said, “and I think there's room in my schedule right now.” She explained that she was already scheduled to film a new movie, The Color Purple, with Steven Spielberg, but if we could do it relatively soon, she might be able to squeeze in a part in Invasion USA.
“Great! I'll send the director to New York to meet with you and discuss the role.”
When I got back to Atlanta, I told the director about Whoopi and how excited I was at having such a talented actress in our film. He flew to New York to catch her play. When he returned to Atlanta, he told me that he didn't think Whoopi was right for the role. I couldn't believe it and told him he was making a big mistake, but I couldn't get him to change his mind. (If you have seen Invasion USA, I believe you will agree with me that Whoopi would have been perfect for the part.) Needless to say, I have never used that director again.
Whoopi's career skyrocketed following her outstanding performance in The Color Purple. No longer did people regard her simply as a comedienne; she was an actress extraordinaire!
Invasion USA was a decent success at the box office, and when the video was sold to MGM, it really took off. The video became the second-highest-selling product in MGM's history at the time, next to The Sound of Music. Imagine what the movie could have done with Whoopi as my costar!
I've always had a special place in my heart for children. When country music star Barbara Mandrell and her sisters invited me to Nashville in the mid-1980s to participate in a charity softball game for kids, I couldn't resist. It was a mixed bag of players, including entertainers as diverse as Bob Hope, Roy Acuff, Sheena Easton, Dick Clark, Betty White, Lynda Carter, Morgan Fairchild, Gladys Knight, and Chuck Woolery, along with professional musicians and singers such as The Oak Ridge Boys, Lee Greenwood, Alabama, Tanya Tucker, Reba McEntire, some professional athletes such as Walter Payton and Herschal Walker; and talk-show host Oprah Winfrey.
We had a lot of laughs, played a fun ball game, and raised some money for one of the Mandrell's favorite charities. As I was leaving the ballpark, I heard Oprah's voice calling out my name.
“Chuck! Chuck! Please come here.”
Oprah had heard a little boy in the crowd who was crying. When she went over to him to see what was wrong, he told her that he was sad because he'd wanted to meet me, but I was leaving. Oprah brushed away his tears and, with his parents' permission, picked up the little boy, pushed through the crowd, and carried him to where the bus was waiting to take us back to our hotels.
“Chuck, this little boy wants to see you,” Oprah called. I stepped back off the bus, and Oprah lifted the little boy into my arms. “There you go,” she said to the child. “You get your wish!”
“Hey, there, big fella,” I said, as I hoisted him high in the air. “What's your name?”
He was just a face in the crowd, but Oprah had noticed his tears. We were there to raise money for other children, and here was one right in our midst that we had an opportunity to encourage, to say a kind word to, and with whom we could hopefully leave a positive impression. It doesn't take much effort to be kind … especially to a child.
One day I received a telephone call from the Make a Wish Foundation, an organization dedicated to helping fulfill the dreams of terminally ill children. They told me that Michael Majia, a five-year-old boy who was suffering from leukemia, idolized me and asked if I would please send him an autographed picture.
“Where does Michael live?” I asked.
“Bellflower, California,” I was told.
“Bellflower is only about forty-five minutes from my home. Would it be all right if I called his mother to arrange a visit and personally took it to him?”
“Are you kidding? That would be great!”
I arrived at the Majia apartment with the picture and several items from my movie career. Michael's mother, June, said he was out with his father. While waiting for them to get back, June told me that Michael had had leukemia since he was three years old. Confined to his hospital room, he watched Lone Wolf McQuade over and over on a video cassette recorder. “I like you a lot,” June said kiddingly, “but I have had to watch that movie over thirty times with Michael. I know every line of dialogue, and it's getting pretty boring!”
I laughed and said, “I have to give you credit. I couldn't watch it that many times.”
Michael finally arrived with his father. Michael was a frail little boy wearing a baseball cap on his head because he was completely bald from his chemotherapy treatments. He stood in the doorway staring at me.
Pointing to me, June asked him, “Do you know who this is?”
Michael nodded his head. He ran over, jumped into my lap, and wrapped his arms around my neck. We talked for almost an hour, mostly about my karate background and how I had started in movies. Then we got on the living room floor, and I taught him some karate moves.
After that visit our friendship flourished. Michael and his parents came to private showings of my movies, and Michael always sat right next to me during the screenings. Sometimes he'd even sit on my lap while we watched the show. While I was in Miami filming Invasion USA, I called Michael to wish him a merry Christmas. We talked for a few minutes, and as I was about to hang up, he said, “I love you very much, Mr. Chuck.”
“I love you too, Michael.”
When I returned home a few months later, I called Michael. June told me that he had died the previous month. Tears welled up in my eyes. “I wish I could have done more for him,” I whispered more to myself than to Michael's mom.
“You did everything humanly possible for him,” she said. “When he was in the hospital, Michael told me, ‘Mom, God wants me in heaven.’ He died watching Lone Wolf McQuade with your picture in his arms.”
After I hung up the phone, I sat there with tears running down my face.
Michael was only seven years old and he hadn't time enough on this earth to experience a lot of things, but the fact that he knew God wanted him in heaven made me sit up and reevaluate the direction I was taking in life.
Besides teaching me about courage, Michael's example also led me to reaffirm my own faith. When my day comes, I want to know that God wants me in heaven.
Since Michael's death I have continued to work with the Make a Wish Foundation, and over the years I
invited hundreds of kids to visit the set of Walker, Texas Ranger. Each one of those children is special to God and to me, but Michael will always own a piece of my heart.
CHAPTER 18
THE AMAZING GRACIES
In 1987, Bob Wall and I traveled to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on a scuba diving trip, so while we were there, we checked out the various forms of martial arts schools. We worked out at several of the schools, and everywhere we went, somebody told us another astounding story about the amazing Gracie family, local jujitsu icons. “We don't mess with the Gracies,” everyone said. “Those guys are tough!”
Bob and I decided we wanted to meet the Gracie family, so we searched out their school in Rio. There we met Helio Gracie, the father of the clan, a small man in his mid-seventies, who was still a capable martial artist himself. His son, Rikson, was the leader of the younger Gracie sons. Bob and I asked if we could work out with them, and the Gracies gladly obliged.
I had done some jujitsu before with Gene LaBelle in the States, and I am a black belt in judo, so I felt quite confident that I could keep up with these boys. But when we got on the mat and began grappling, I quickly discovered that every martial art move I knew was ineffective against the Gracies. It was as though I'd never had a lesson in my life! It was the most humbling experience I'd ever had as a martial artist. Those guys just cleaned my clock!
Helio Gracie came over to the mat and wanted to grapple with me. We wrestled around on the mat, and I was able to get on top of him, when suddenly Mr. Gracie said, “Chuck, punch me.”
Against All Odds: My Story Page 13
